


A Great Marriage.

by justjyve



Category: Casanova (TV 2015)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen, Mild Language, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 09:47:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjyve/pseuds/justjyve
Summary: Based on the Amazon Casanova 2015 pilot, Giacomo Casanova ( as portrayed by Diego Luna ) escapes imprisonment and finds himself a free man among Paris, France. Ambition to be seen more than his reputation as nothing more than the great lover, and determination of revenge against the man behind his arrest fueling him, a great marriage seems to be quite the stepping stone to achieve both these goals. Whether he approves of it or not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story idea nagged at me until it just started writing itself. I had tried to make the two more, in my words, “ugh” at each other but best-laid plans… Either way, I hope you enjoy reading this, more chapters will be on the way, this is just a start. The idea for Gisselle is largely based on Natalie Dormer’s look from her portrayal in the bbc scandalous lady w, but I’ve left the description of the character open and as vague as possible so that it may be up to the reader if that’s not your cup of tea. so read on! Leave kudos, comment, anything to stroke my own ego and tell me this was enjoyed. Each chapter will alternate from the point of view of Giacomo and Gisselle, the first chapter being Giacomo's chapter.

          They were to meet within a masque, one of the many he has attended in this city of mediocrity. A pale imitation of the grand masquerades of Venice that he yearns to take part in again. But not yet, he knows. For now, his home is Paris, and it would be here that he would meet his _fiance._

          The mere word felt like an anchor around his legs, dragging him down until there was nothing left. _A wife_ , he was told, he needed a _wife._ The thought seemed just as ridiculous as when he was first suggested it. Could not a man stand on his own, or was his past so tainted that only the hand of a woman he had never met could be the means to rise again as more than what the world had perceived him to be? More than his indulgences? Francois-Joachim de Bernis seemed to have thought so, arranging the whole maddening thing. Which did not build Giacomo’s confidence of the match and whether it was truly in his best interest?

 

>  “ _I hear she is of a great beauty, if that entices you.”_
> 
> _“Very little. Most women are beautiful, friend. I am reluctant of the woman herself. I know nothing of this lady and you’d have me make her my wife for the good of what? My reputation? You have so little confidence that I can do so myself – it hurts, it really does.”_
> 
> _“Marriage often provides an improvement of one’s social standing. That has been true for quite some time. It would be good for you, I think. The world will see you as a man who is tired of being led with his cock–”_
> 
> _“–I cannot do that by myself?”_
> 
> _“–and yearn to settle down. The family is wealthy, no doubt you would obtain much if you marry the girl. They are quite eager for the match–”_
> 
> _“And the girl? Is she so eager for a marriage with_ such _a man who needs such salvation in the eyes of others?”_
> 
> _A sigh came, exasperated yet barely strained. “This is not meant to_ insult _you, old friend. Nor will you be forced. You will meet her and see for yourself if you are willing to wed her. As for the girl… I imagine she would be quite eager to find a match for herself as well. She’s been through three matches that all have been broken at the last minute.”_
> 
> _His eyes widened with a rather shocked laugh. “Three? Good God. And…you do not find that…curious?”_
> 
> _“–well. I’ve been told she is quite lovely, yet her tongue is often sharp. That would drive many a man away… Unless you are not up for the challenge?” Giacomo had said nothing, which made Bernis smile with satisfaction. “She will be at the masque. At least try to be cordial towards her. Who knows, you may have the power to soften her tongue, it would do her a world of good.”_
> 
> _Fingers brushed over his hair as he gave out an aggravated sigh. “What is her name, at least?”_
> 
> _“Gisselle. Gisselle Pascal.”_

          It was then that Giacomo had heard a peal of laughter from within the crowd, one that had managed to be heard over the music and other chattering voices. Turning slowly, his eyes searched for the source, eyes roaming every Parisian head within the ballroom. One more of the same than the other, until his eyes rested upon the smiling face of one such woman within the company of two other women – whispering idle gossip no doubt. Watching as her face gained a light crimson tint and grander laugh. Not when he would have expected – the light girlish giggles he so often heard, of a woman doing so with a purpose. Much like the masks, they wore, concealing the true self. It was a true laugh, one that came from within – a genuine laugh. He made a light scoff, bringing his drink to his lips, taking a leisure sip of the wine.

          “You found her, then.”

          His eyes flickered to that of Bernis, taking all of him not to show annoyance in the smug look on his _friend’s_ face. How can such a smirk be permitted, he knew not. Yet still, a light twitch of the lips to bring a small smile and hum. “That is her, then.” The mask had made it difficult, yet there were some features that he recognized from the portrait he was shown. He held that advantage, at least, though no doubt she would have heard the stories of a man he tried not to be once more. Bernis was correct, however, Madame Gisselle Pascal was a beauty, his eyes raking over her from the distance he stood. The portrait depiction did not catch the smile when she laughs, and failed to capture the light of the fire hearth that struck against the strands of hair – held up and fashioned in ringlets to cascade over her shoulders. She looked of money, the dress a touch extravagant and yet form fitted to her, hugging the hips and the skirts flowed as she moved – as if she was floating.

          There are many beautiful women in the world, for sure. Yet the urge to turn away and flee arose in him, to put this foolish idea behind and continue just as he was doing to obtain what he wanted. Alone. As a man on his own and to not drag another into his machinations. Fingers tapping against the glass he carried, he pondered the quickest route when all thoughts of fleeing evaporated as soon as the girl turned her head and caught sight of him. _Merda_ , he thought, watching as her own eyes seemingly looked over his appearance. His back straightened, unconsciously straightening his clothing, though stopping midway – pondering why he attempted to do so in the first place. She must have caught it, for he was sure he saw a look of amusement on her face before she turned to the two that accompanied her. It made him feel uneasy as if he made himself a fool, which only strengthened his desire to leave.

          But she had started to move toward him, and he had found himself alone. His _friend_ deserted him – which was infuriating, though not surprising. A thousand curses repeated themselves in his mind over mere seconds as he took another generous sip of his wine, finishing it and putting it to the side. His thumb brushing against his bottom lip to suckle upon the remainder of the wine.

          Just as she approached, bestowing upon him a gentle smile. “ _Signor_ Casanova, I presume?”

          It took him a moment, “I… Yes.”

          “Did I say it wrong?”

          “No – no, not at all,” he uttered, shaking his head. “I’ve come used to people here insisting on calling me _Monsieur_ it…took me by surprise. That is all.”

          “Ah…” Her eyes downcast as she gave in to yet another smile. “I’ve figured as much, it’s certainly a very Parisian thing, to insist on that…”

          “Are you not Parisian as the rest of them here?”

          A light scoff was given at the question, and she tilted her head, “You strike me as a man that is very _proud_ of his Venetian roots, _Signor_ … It only felt right to address you as such.”

          She was clever, he would admit that. But there was no smile on his lips, nor warm a look to his eyes. “That is considerate, thank you, Mademoiselle Pascal.”

          “No thanks is needed, the clear appreciation on your face is more than enough.”

          “I–” his brows furrowed as he looked to her, the sarcastic tones evident but sharp enough to barely touch the surface. Bernis seemed to be right of her sharp tongue, and perhaps that had earned a small twitch of the lips – though no more. “The music bores me.”

          “It is much to be desired – a walk, then? I would not mind the fresh air, and I’ve heard the roses have bloomed and let out a rather beautiful scent. And then, of course, in the quiet we shall get to know one another more than the stories being told, no doubt.”

          He gave a nod with a soft, affirmative hum, offering his arm for her. With arms linked, they walked through the crowd, her eyes straight ahead while his own looked to her from time to time. “You seem more versed in these matters than I am.”

          “You are not the first that my father has arranged to be my future husband, so I suppose I am. Which I doubt you haven’t heard about…”

          “Perhaps.”

          “It is far from a secret and secrets do not tend to last here in Paris. You need not protect my feelings, Signor Casanova. I will not break simply because of the mention of my failed engagements.”

          “I did not assume that you would–”

          “Then you would have admitted that you have heard of them, instead of your elusive _‘perhaps’_ , now wouldn’t you?”

          Now _that_ had earned a rather shocked laugh to escape him, looking at her with an arched brow. “In that case, I see the talk of your _sharp tongue_ is accurate.”

          Her lips stretched into a smile, a light chortle of laughter rumbled within her chest. “I’m afraid so…” she looked at him, leaning forward ever slightly. “Does my sharp tongue make you want to flee?”

_No_ , he thought, eyes looking her over. But instead of voicing that, he shot back, “Is that what the other men did? Felt the sharp edge was too much and fled?”

          She looked at him a moment, eyes narrowing and lips pursed. He wondered if he had offended her, yet she parted her lips, and in a steel tone, uttered; “ _Perhaps_.”

          “Hypocrite.”

          “ _Parisian_ ,” she corrected then tore her gaze from him, though his eyes strayed to her, eyes looking over the curve of her neck. “The gardens,” she announced. “They say the roses are at the center of it all. If you wish to continue.”

          That was quite the option, and he was impressed that she gave it to him. He _could_ decline, and he could turn away and put this engagement behind him. Find other ways to alleviate himself in this society of pretenders. But that was the thing about Paris – perception was _everything_. He gave a nod toward her, and his feet carried them forward. It was a pleasant night, the air held a warmth that almost felt like he was in Venice once more, and the fragrance of the flowers, the roses around them reached his nose and he could not say it was unpleasant. Neither was Gisselle, for that matter. He was expecting worse yet as they made their way to their desired spot, there was something that _bothered_ him. “Turn around.”

          Her brows furrowed, facing him and letting her eyes roam his face. His own brows rose in question, watching as she tilted her head. “I…did not ask you out here for… When I said we could get to know one another–”

          He _did_ laugh at that, a short one, yet still present and full of mirth. Shaking his head, “No, no, no.” His lips smiling, amusement even shining in his eyes, for a moment. “You _have_ heard stories about me, Mademoiselle. But no, I…” He cleared his throat, lifting his hand and fingers gestured toward the mask. “I…only wanted to see your face. To take off your mask, that is all.”

          “…oh.” Even with the mask hiding half her face, he could see the light tint of crimson that colored her cheeks. “Forgive me, I…” A soft huff of a laugh escaped her, clearing her throat. “I feel mortified.”

          A smirk lingered upon his lips, eyes casting down as he tried _not_ to have found it all charming. The image of her reddening cheeks stayed with him even as she turned around as he asked, eyes looking to the silk thread that tied at the back of her head. Fingers lifted and pulled upon it, loosening the hold of the mask, prompting her to take hold and lower it from her face. His eyes had found their way along the curve of her neck once more, staying close though he let his hands clasp at the small of his back. She turned, then, shoulder almost grazing him as she did and his eyes looked up and found her face now revealed to him. _Much better_ , he thought. To speak with her face half hidden had felt…ridiculous a bit. And her face – well. Her _face_. His eyes couldn’t help but drink it all in, every inch, the curve of lips, the color of her eyes and the way the loose strands of hair framed her face. “Your portrait doesn’t do you justice.”

          She smiled lightly, “I’ve heard that line before.”

          “Just because something is repeated does not make it a lie.” He took another moment to observe her face, her eyes seem much more expressive without the mask hiding them. He had lifted his own hand to remove his mask, but she had boldly stepped forward, leaning more towards his side and worked to loosen the silk thread herself. The warmth of her close, having not had a woman properly for what seemed a while…it had felt intoxicating. Yet he told himself it was simply because of the wine he had partaken the night, nothing more. His darkened eyes looked to her nonetheless as she pulled and loosened the mask, and took it upon herself to pull it from his face. He felt her eyes did just as he did mere moments prior; take in his appearance, eyes roaming his face. She had tilted her head as if she were observing a painting or some form of art. Her lips pursing slightly as she took a deep breath before exhaling. His brows furrowed, shaking his head. “What is it?”

          “I was worried, before meeting you. When I was first told of our meeting, our proposed engagement… Everyone was eager to tell me of your exploits, your… _adventures_ but… They would not, or could not, tell me of your appearance. It was troubling. Does that often bother you? That your most intimate tales could be repeated and spread with ease and yet details of you as a person… Even something as simple as the way you look…” She shakes her head, “There is not much opinion of it. Only vague assumptions.”

_Yes,_ was his immediate thought. It had started to bother him more and more since his escape to freedom. He wanted more. To be seen as more than his cock, yes, that was the point. Though his pride struck a blow. Brows furrowing as his back straightened, a hand at his hip. “People do not think I am handsome? You know… Perhaps I am not, it’s not the first I’ve been told that perhaps I am not as handsome as the stories say – but then. You can’t believe all the stories.”

          “No? That’s a pity, some were impressive.” He had smiled at that, though his eyes strayed to the ground. “You are, though.”

          Looking up at her once more, he asked, “What am I?”

          “Handsome. Especially when you smile, though… Quite the effort to bring it out of you. Especially in the beginning.”

          “Ah…” He was torn between feeling flattered that she had complimented his looks, and guilty for being standoffish at first. Though he had never intended to stop, to remain cold and to get this over with as quickly as possible. Yet he had smiled more than once and even _laughed_. His face a look of confusion, trying to decipher how that had managed to happen. “Yes,” he started, pushing the thought down to the back of his mind. “I am sorry, it was just–”

          “You…are not pleased with me, perhaps… I am not what you want as a wife.”

          “No,” he uttered immediately, then cursed, “No, no, that’s… You are… _interesting_ , Mademoiselle Pascal. Truly. I did not expect to enjoy my time, but… It was…” He let out a soft huff of a laugh. “Very interesting.”

          “You do not have to protect my feelings, Signor Casanova.”

          “I am not, you made yourself clear that you do not need such protection.” Again, his lips quirked into a light smile. “I get it. But I just…” Shaking his head, “I do not want a wife. I am sorry. You would make a good one, but…”

          “If you are worried that our marriage would stop in your….adventures, I…” She sighed, “You would be allowed. I would not think ill of you, not that I would do the same to step outside of our marriage of course, but, if that is what you wished–”

          “Wait.” There was something about the words that brought a distaste in his mouth as if the wine he had partaken in had rotted in his mouth. Brows furrowed as he looked to her, the coldness returning, “You… You think that is the only reason I do not want a wife? Because I do not want to stop indulging and pleasing my _cock_ , is…” He sighed, “I am not that man anymore. I am not the man of the stories that you have clearly heard too much of.”

          Her body had stiffened, jaw tightening as she stared at him with cold eyes that seemed to rival his own. “Yet you are _still,_ _ **a man,**_ Signor.”

          The steel and cold tone in which she said the words brought a fire burning deep within his belly, and his eyes burned. “I see why you are a woman with three broken engagements.”

          “You _really_ don’t.”

          “No, no. I see. How can a man, a true man, respect a woman so willing to turn a blind eye to her husband’s infidelities, no? To assume the worst of him, to believe the stories above the man himself–”

          “It is not a personal slight against you!” she let out with exasperation. “ _Mon Dieu._ Perhaps there needs to be a revision in the retelling of your stories, Signor Casanova. For the size of your _ego_ seems to dwarf the perceived size of your _cock!_ ”

          “ _M_ _annaggia_ ,” he let out in a heated whisper. “So what is it? If not an attack on my character, if not for…seeing less of me because of what is said about me, what then? Do you distrust men so much that it does not bother you?”

          “I am not looking to marry for _love_. And men are weak for the temptation of the flesh, that is a _fact_.”

          “And what makes it so? Why not marry for love? Does that not make a marriage more–”

          “Convenient?”

          “Pointless.”

          She scoffed, “You are far too romantic, Signor.”

          “No. I am Venetian. Why do you believe men are weak? Hm? Is that why the engagements broke? You found each with another woman?”

          She shook her head, “Why are you… Why are you so interested, you keep _asking_ of them, why?”

          “Is that it? Have you grown bitter and now so desperate for marriage that you do not care if you are disrespected in such a way?”

          “Men are fools for temptation. That is my truth.”

          He raised a hand, pointing a finger towards her. “Because you have been betrayed?” He didn’t know why he kept pressing on, he had felt insulted and pigeonholed as the Lothario and for some reason, to hear her assume of him as such…it had made him angry. “You blame the folly of a few and put that upon me–”

          “ _No_. I am not speaking of _you.”_

_“Then what?_ Why think this way? Why assume–”

          She grew frustrated, he saw it, but he could not bring himself to back down though he hadn’t the idea why. He could have just walked away. Yet he wanted to know, burning within his mind, he wanted to know. Then she grew quiet, the anger fading from her face and she looked at him straight into his eyes. She seemed resigned, and it only worked to spark his curiosity. Taking a deep breath, she parted her lips. “Because, Signor Casanova… I am the very product…of my father’s weakness towards the temptation of a woman that was _not_ his wife.”

          The anger, that fire that burned within his gaze and his belly, all faded away as the realization hit him. It made him feel a fool. “You… You are illegitimate.”

          “A _bastard_ , my father’s wife tells me, and never lets me forget.”

          “She does not like you.”

          “She _despises_ me,” she uttered in a pained whisper.

          “Which is why you wish to be married.”

          She nods, hand clasped together in front of her. “Growing up, I’ve… I’ve had the protection and love of my father and his mother. But… They grow old and…they will die and without a husband… I would not trust Madame Pascal to…ensure my safety. I want to leave that house, I want…”

          “…freedom.” He looked at her, watching as she nodded. He hummed, crossing his arms in front of him. “Your suitors found out.”

          “My father wanted to keep it a secret, but… As I said. Secrets in Paris…they do not last long. I had wanted to tell you, but… To have four broken engagements, it’s…unsavory to others.”

          “And then I forced it out of you anyway.” He grimaced, hand raised to scratch at the side of his neck. With a sigh, he relented. “It bothers me.”

          Brows furrowed upon her face, shaking her head. “That I am a bastard?”

          “No,” he quickly responded, looking to her. “That is something you could not help. The consequences of your father’s actions, as lovely as you are. No, I meant… It does bother me. That people know me for the…tales of seduction and not…for myself.”

          “Oh…” She grimaced, “I should have… I was too careless with my words–”

          “No,” he uttered in a soft amused tone. “You had your very valid reasons. And also, you are right. My ego is bigger than my cock.” She laughed, which prompted him to chuckle. “That was a good one.”

          “My…sharp tongue and I do get ahead of ourselves I suppose.”

          “It’s good,” he said with a more relaxed smile. “I think…” He paused, releasing a small sound, nodding a bit. “Yes.” Nodding more confidently. “Yes—I’m going to rely on that sharp tongue of yours, your opinions, your truths… It will be handy for when my ego and pride make me a fool.”

          “I…” she started, shaking her head. “Are you… Signor–”

          “No, no. Giacomo.” Lifting his finger to point at her. “You call me Giacomo now. Because you’re right. In this Parisian society… Four broken engagements,” He shook his head. “That will never do. And I think… I will need you. As my wife. Now, _Gisselle_ , say my name. I want to hear it.”

          There was a look of incredibility on her face, as she stared at him, shaking her head softly from side to side. He could only imagine what ran through her head, as he could barely register what he had just promised this girl that had him burning just moments before. This was not what he wanted, yet she had smiled, and released a much soft peal of laughter, reminiscent of the first sound he had heard from her and he found himself smiling as well. “Giacomo,” she said.

          And it felt…gratifying.


End file.
